Warriors of the East The Starblade Tower
by Kerrin Quickpaw
Summary: Far in the eastern seas, an ancient warrior order falls to treachery. Redwall and Salamandastron are beset by forces beyond anything they have ever imagined and they must rely on a group of warriors touched by Fate. An impetuous squirrelmaid, an escaped mouse-thief, a timid badger, a vengeful fox and a reformed Searat captain, along with many others, will join to fight for freedom.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, so those of you who read my story under the name "Warriors of Mossflower" might be a little puzzled right now, so I'll try to explain. The story developed a lot more since I started writing it, so I decided to give it a more relevant title and summary; I also changed and added quite a few things to fit the changing parts of my storyline and added a new prologue. Please review my new chapter or the whole story. : )**

**Warriors of the East: The Starblade Tower**

**A Traditional Tale from Redwall**

**Prologue**

A cold wind blew in through Mossflower country, moaning through the eaves and ramparts of Redwall Abbey. A leaf, reddish brown and tattered, was picked up from the wall-steps, swirling in the strong air currents. The moan became a high-pitch whine as the intensity of the wind suddenly increased; swift as an arrow, the leaf was carried over the treetops and out into the vastness of a stormy night sky. East and a touch south, it went as the wind became a howling gale, swaying the trunks of enormous woodland trees and whipping the water of streams and rivers to a frenzy. Over forest and hills, mountains and lakes, the leaf sped, until it reached the shores of the eastern sea and, propelled by gusts from the mighty storm, continued out over countless leagues of heaving waves. A boat passed under it, crewed by several dark-furred beasts, the small craft almost swamped by the mountains of water threatening to drag it under. On and on the small leaf raced, until, as a touch of light came through the storm-torn skies, the wind slowly abated, dropping it lightly down on the torn tunic of an unconscious beast lying on the rocky ground of a large island.

Arren the fox came slowly back to consciousness, fighting back waves of intense pain. His chest burned around a deep gash, the brown fur around its edge matted with dried blood; his head also throbbed, maimed by several large wounds. Staggering upright, Arren yelped in pain as he moved his right arm which was obviously broken. His body blazed with pain but his mind burned even more with anger. Treachery, treachery. Flashes of memory came back to his fevered mind. The black ferret, smiling as he broke his defenses, breaking his limbs and paralyzing his entire body with swift strikes. His own brother, Farr, slashing down at his helpless body with a curving blade, averting his eyes so as not to see him. Nirala, running to help him, her beautiful, red-gold face streaked with tears and anger. The female rat throwing the dagger, no, the dagger... Arren stumbled and fell, tears streaming down his muzzle. He had to live. He had to warn the Order. But no they were dead too, all his fellow warriors, his friends. Betrayed. The wounded fox crawled on, oblivious to the golden sunrise which shed light upon a island dominated by rocky outcrops, pines, and, most of all, a giant tower, rising into the sky, whose sides seemed to reflect the sun's early rays like a giant mirror. Arren, the warrior fox, would live; for vengeance, for his friends, for his mate, for the Order of Starblade, and for the peaceful creatures far away who knew nothing of what had happened on the lonely island in the Eastern sea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

It was the middle of an especially warm autumn in Mossflower country, following the mighty storm which had ravaged the woods only one moon ago. Dawnlight filtered through the thick canopy, reflecting on the clear waters of the river Moss and throwing dappled patterns on the old canvas top of a craft which was moored to the side of the bank. The boat had seen better days; patches of resin and newer wood covered it's round, logboat-like structure and the canvas cover which covered most of its length was faded and worn. From underneath its shelter, a young squirrelmaid emerged, stretching and yawning in the cool morning air. Jumping lightly unto the bank, she busied herself with the preparation of a small fire over which she started mixing a thick oat porridge supplemented with various fruits, nuts and berries. She was tall, for a squirrel, with a deep, red fur which turned to cream on her paws and throat, and her build was strong and fit from a life in the woodlands and streams. Her eyes, almond-shaped and darker than most squirrels, roved alertly over the streambank as she worked, taking in the beauty of an autumn morn but also checking for any signs of danger. Satisfied, she whistled happily to a passing lark and turned back to the fire,, calling out to the back of the craft as she did so, " Da, breakfast's ready! Better hurry or it'll go cold and I'll have to feed it to the fishes!" The canvas top flapped slightly and a fat, older squirrel appeared, swaying as a light wind rocked the boat.

He was covered in a staggering array of multicolored sashes, belts, jangles, and tissue scraps and sported a headband topped with a large, feathered hat. However, the eyes that peeked out from under the brim were sharp and glittering, the eyes of an astute trader and woodsbeast. "Hol' hard there, me beauty! No brekkist o' mine is going to the fishes if'n I'm around to stop it. Mmm, that smells grand, jus' grand! What've you got cooking, Lira?" The squirrelmaid in question laughed and answered her father, " Oh, just come and see for yourself. You'll probably scoff it all down before you notice it though, you great, starving squirrel." Garrol Trufflebrush leaped down and plumped himself by the fire, filling two wooden bowls to the brim with porridge; passing one to his daughter, he lost no time in spooning down his. Garrol was a merchant squirrel, a trade that he had inherited from his father and grandfather. He ranged the waterways and woodlands freely, and every settlement of woodlanders in Mossflower knew the fat, cheery squirrel; Garrol was an outstanding storyteller, ballad-singer, and craftsman.

As they finished their breakfast and gathered up the cooking gear, Lira questioned her father, "Where to next, Da? The moles at Hardburrow are expecting some tools from you aren't they? And we're close to the Cottonear family burrow... I'm sure you could do some good trading there, what with all the young ones they have." Garrol winked at her, " Aye, that we could. But I was thinkin', lass, it's been awhile since I've visited Redwall Abbey. Sure, and with all the grand trading we've had this season, t'would be the ideal place to spend the winter. What d'ye think lass?" Lira's eyes shone with excitement; she had only been to Redwall Abbey once, as a babe, before her mother died, but she had heard the legends of the abbey time and time again, mostly from her father's store of ballads and stories. "Can we really, Da? I've always wanted to see it again; I don't remember much from when I was little... I would love to spend a full season there!" Garrol smiled at her, " Well, then, shall we push off? We should make it within three days, all going well."

Boarding the craft, the two squirrels unmoored the odd boat and took up long poles, pushing the craft off the riverbank and into the stronger midstream current. As she punted the craft downstream, a sixth sense made Lira turn her head and look back at their breakfast site. She thought she heard a swift rustle but nothing was there; the green bank looked peaceful and serene in the morning sun. Shaking her head, she turned back to the pole and chuckled as her father launched into an uproarious river ballad of his own invention. The jangles and mirrors attached to the faded canvas glistened in the sun as the boat wound its way around a river bend, the cheery song ringing out as Garrol and Lira sang alternate verses.

Whoa, a ole trout met a crayfish one day,

Shiver me tiller and wallop away!

He saw he was walking a very odd way

An' asked him why he was running away!

Swoggle me rudder, an' what did ye say?

Sir Crayfish, indignant, said to the trout,

Collop me paddle an' sail away south!

That he had never been known as a lout,

And that for little he'd nip his tail out,

Flood out me bunker an' never say drought!

The crayfish got so angry, he charged at the fish,

Rip down the rapids an' pass me a quiche!

But could only charge backwards, for all he could wish,

And walked straight in the mouth of a hungry pikefish!

Swim down the river with a flick an' a swish!

As soon as the last cheery notes faded away downstream, the bushes by the bank rustled and parted to allow two slim weasels out. They were not immediately recognizable as weasels however, for their fur was black as night- whether it was dyed or natural could not be seen. The two were absolutely alike, from their muscular athletic figure crossed with numerous scars and covered only by a light leather jerkin, up to their dark flat eyes which would leave nobeast in doubt that they were seasoned killers. Both carried a medium size bow across their backs and a quiver of black-winged arrows. Throwing a quick glance downriver, they exchanged glances and started at a swift lope upriver.

A long way upriver, deep in the woodlands, a camp was set up in a glade. A fire crackled, as a fox roasted a fish over its flames. His fur was also a deep black, and his build was similar to the ferret, lean and tough, only covered by a leather jerkin and a black belt. He leapt up as the weasel brothers loped into the camp. "Khan, Khorr, good. Varan is in the tent with the others. He wishes to talk with you." The one named Khorr nodded imperceptibly and they both slid into a large shelter that had been erected besides a large rock crag. Adjusting their eyes to the dim light, they glanced around at the five creatures who sat or lounged on the carpet of moss. All of them were pitch black and wore belted jerkins or tunics along with dark cloaks, but that, and their deadly, shifting eyes, was all they had in common. A small rat crouched in a corner, pouches hanging from her belts; next to her a wildcat lounged against the rocky crag, wicked claws digging in and out of the tent canvas. On the opposite side, a pine marten stood silent, eyes averted from the rest of the company. However, the brothers only glanced at their companions; their attention was wholly on the last creature in the tent. Veran the Black.

The black ferret stood a head higher than most of his specie; his lithe body, fit and muscular, seemed always coiled like a a spring, ready to spring into action at any time. Like all his companions, he was dressed simply; a leather tunic with the addition of a snakeskin belt. No weapons could be seen on his person; however, all the beasts who knew him also knew that to underestimate Veran the Black was the last mistake they would ever make. The ferret waited as his two scouts approached him to make their report. Unlike most of his fellow vermin, that is, anybeasts who possess an inherent disregard for the life of others and live only to serve their own desires, Veran was a highly intelligent beast, wily in the art of deciphering both his allies and his enemies. Through the application of this ability, he now possessed a band of near-invincible warriors who were ready and willing to fight for him and follow him to Hellgates and back, not through terror or fear (which, he had long ago discovered, was one of the best ways to ensure betrayal, desertion, or murder), but through respect, bordering on reverence, for his skills and a certain guarantee that serving such a creature as Veran the Black would bring fame, power, and anything else they might desire. Besides, who would dare to align himself against him, now that the only warriors who could compare with his skill were lying poisoned inside their own tower? Nodding briefly to the two weasels, Veran listened to their report.

"We are a three day's march away from the Redwall fortress, Master."

"We overheard a merchant squirrel and his daughter who are going there, on the river"

"If we are swift, we can follow them to Redwall"

The twin weasels spoke alternately, their voice monotonous and even, seeming completely detached from the situation. Veran knew, however, that the apparent apathy of his two scouts only made them more deadly and merciless; besides, focus and a lack of emotion were very useful traits for archers, the evidence being that Khan and Khorr had never, so far as he knew, missed their target. Rising in one fluid motion, Veran strode out of the tent followed by the others.

"Good scouting. Come, my warriors, let us finish our mission and destroy the last legacy of Martin the Warrior, the last threat to our skill and power, from this land."

The sun rose higher as the seven black warriors loped swiftly on the riverbank, following the squirrel's barge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

A light wind tinged with cold blew in from the west, shuffling the red leaves which carpeted Redwall's west battlements. Tarro, Champion of Redwall, gazed up at the star-strewn night skies, letting the peace of an autumn night flow over him. His glance wandered from the glimmering flat plains in front of the Abbey to the northern battlement tower, finally resting on the moon-washed gables and roofs of Redwall Abbey. His heart ached as he gazed at the beauty and humble majesty of his home; the place he had defended and fought for all of his long life. But now the old mouse only felt a longing for peace and rest both for himself and for Redwall, and he was troubled for he felt in his heart that, on the contrary, difficult times lay ahead for the Abbey and its inhabitants. His paw wandered to the hilt of Martin's sword which always hung at his belt, tracing the leather hilt and the smooth red pommel stone. In a single fluid motion, he drew it from its scabbard and held it in front of him. He was still fit and strong, from years of constant training, but under his long grey fur, Tarro could feel a new tiredness in his muscles which had never been present in the bygone days when he was young and full of vigor and battlelust. The old warrior's lip moved slightly as he murmured to the blade which had once been worn by the greatest warrior ever born, "Martin, whatever happens, I will never abandon my duty to your Abbey. But who will protect it when I am gone?"

Foremole Torkan Sturnclaw, shuffled out of the Abbey's main door, light spilling out across the lawn as he called back into the noisy hall, "Hurr, Oi'll jurst check on Maister Tarro, ee's been oot on ee walltop furr ee larst three hours." As he made his way across the lawn, Torkan glanced up at the battlements. Moonlight was shimmering on the ancient blade as the Champion of Redwall lunged, parried, and swung in an amazing display of swordsmanship for one so old. Tarro stopped briefly, mopping his brow, and shook his head wearily; his speed and agility were waning, he could feel it as he performed his movements. Gritting his teeth, the mouse warrior prepared to enter a complex combination of swordplay and footwork, but stopped in mid strike as the large, furry head of the Foremole appeared from the battlement stairs. His trusty friend grinned as he joined Tarro on the walltop, "Ho, hurr, zurr, you'm near 'ad moi 'ead offen on ee larst stroke!" He climbed up to join him and both beasts stood silently gazing into the calm night, listening to a night-jar's singing. Torkan Sturnclaw was large for a mole, and he was renowned for his strength- not without reason, judging from the muscle which rippled underneath his smooth black fur and his mighty digging claws which looked capable of bone and armor-crushing feats. At his belt hung a large war-hammer, gilded and spiked, the very same one once worn by his long-gone ancestor, Axtel Sturnclaw. "Yurr be's peracticin orften, ee larst days, zurr T'rro. Sumthing worrien ee, hurr?" Tarro sighed as he answered, "Aye, somehow I don't feel right these days. Maybe I'm just worrying about who will become Champion when I grow too old to wield a blade. But something tells me that it is more than that. My dreams of Martin are becoming more frequent but I can never remember if he left me any messages. All I know is that something was wrong, somehow, something that had to do with Martin himself... and Martin has never warned me needlessly before. I hope it is simply my worrying, Torkan, but I feel that the peace of Redwall Abbey is about to be broken." Torkan looked up at his friend. "Burr aye, moi digging claws be's telling oi that too. Us'ns warriors think ee same way." The mole chieftain clasped his hammer and grinned up at Tarro, "But wotever harpens, moi friend, Redwall will be roidy. Besides, starnding oot 'ere in ee cold, won't stop anything frum harpening, no zurr. Coom inside an' get soom vittles inside o' ee! Oi'll make certen that ee wallrs be watched tonoight."

As Tarro and Torkan walked inside Great Hall, they winced at the volume of noise in the room. Dulba Prickpin, the fat, jolly hedgehog wife who was the Abbey Cellarhog and Gaffer Burdo, a member of Torkan's molecrew and the Abbey Gardener, were in full flow as they rendered a hearty song about October Ale, accompanied more or less harmoniously by a chorus of enthusiastic Dibbuns (the name conferred upon all the small babes who live at Redwall.) Meanwhile, the rest of the Redwallers continued with their animated supper talk, punctuated by whoops and gasps from a long table where a young otter named Sarko was engaged in a shrimp-and-hotroot-soup-eating contest against Skipper Logan, surrounded by a crowd of their ottermates. Sarko was not yet a fully adult otter but he was tough and quick with an impudent sense of humor. Gasping from his third bowl of the otter specialty that was rumored to have once melted a hole in a frozen river in midwinter, he grinned cheekily at his Skipper, "Haharr, Skip, betcha ye can't keep on slurpin' if I adds some more o' that 'otroot pepper?" Skipper Logan drained his bowl in a single movement, smiling slightly at the confident young otter, "By all means, mate, be my guest!" Needing no second bidding, Sarko dumped the full contents of a rather large pouch in the cauldron, refilled his bowl and Logan's, and went at it with gusto, eyes streaming. On his fifth bowl, Sarko looked up at the otter chieftain who had only downed four. Logan winked at him, "My turn, mate!" Reaching to his kelp-woven belt-pouch, the Skipper produced a tiny sachet, "Fancy tryin' a sprinkling o' my grannie's special hotroot from the southern rivers, cully?" "Aye, pass it 'ere, Skip!" Ripping the edge, Sarko upended the entire contents into the half-filled cauldron, eliciting gasps from some of the onlookers. Winking roguishly at the young female otters who were watching the contest, he dug his spoon in and swallowed. A ghost of a smile played around the normally laconic Skipper's lips as he watched Sarko's whiskers stiffen and his ears stand rigid. Mustering all his courage the young otter continued to spoon soup into his mouth; meanwhile, Logan who had refilled his bowl from the dreaded cauldron, gulped it straight down without blinking and started on his sixth. Suddenly, halfway through his bowl, Sarko's face nose turned red and his cheeks bulged; he dropped his spoon and gave a roar, falling backwards upon the floor and gasping for air. The entire ottercrew roared with laughter- all except Skipper Logan who had just finished his sixth bowl, and was wiping his whiskers calmly, "Mmm, prime stuff this is, mates."

Rising from the table, the tall, sleek otter left his crew rolling on the floor with mirth, and went to join the Foremole and Tarro who were seated close to Abbess Lydia. Lydia was a small mouse in her mid-season; there was nothing small, however, about her energy, intelligence, and quick wit. As she often did, Lydia had eschewed the large wooden chair which the leaders of Redwall typically sat in, choosing instead to eat with Torkan and his mole crew and leaving the chair to Tarro. She chatted animatedly with the moles in their own peculiar speech, inquiring about the various tasks they had done that day. "Ow is ee new gaterhoose door comeen, Gurd?" "Burr, marm, usn's will 'ave eet put oop, tomorer." "Donna, 'ow marny potts you'm maken today?" Donna, Torkan's mate, was a pottery expert, besides helping her mate with the any large tasks the molecrew had to do. "Foive new pitchers furr ee kitchens, Loidya, marm", she answered cheerily with a wave of her impressive claws. Lydia nodded and rose, joining the Foremole, Tarro, and Skipper Logan who were making inroads upon a platter of large mushroom and leek pasties while conversing in low tones. "Hmm, well your connection with our long-gone warrior has never been in doubt, Tarro. I'll send out my ottercrew at dawn to scout out the woodlands." "Hurr, and oi an' moi molecrew'll fortificate ee main gate and garther sum gurt piles o' rubble furr slingstoners." "Excuse me, but can I know what's going on here?" Lydia had stolen up on the trio and stood paws akimbo, regarding them severely, "If my Abbey is in any kind of danger, the Abbess should be first to know, don't you think?" Tarro immediately apologized to the Mother Abbess, "I'm sorry, Mother Abbess. We were simply discussing the implications of Martin's recent appearances to me in my dreams. With your permission, Foremole and Skipper wish to increase the overall safety of the Abbey, just in case." Lydia smiled at the gracious apology; she and Tarro had known each other for long seasons. "Of course, my dear friends. I am grateful to have such capable warriors in the event of a threat to Redwall. Though I must say I am not unduly worried, judging from the last vermin band who tried attacking Redwall." The four creatures smiled as they remembered the total rout of a large band of Brownrats who had attempted to capture the Abbey, ten seasons ago. However, none of them could know that the foe who was rapidly approaching at that very moment was unlike any threat the peaceful Abbey had ever faced.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

That evening, the waves sparkled faintly in the moonlight as they crashed into the sand of the shores besides the mountain of Salamandastron and lapped at the footpaws of a young badger. Sven Bladestripe, son of Lord Tadhor Bladestripe, sat with his head in his paws, sobbing on the pebble-strewn beach. "Here now, wot's all this, young feller?", a kindly voice spoke out from behind him, "Come in, and have some scoff at least, young one. M'lud, will understand that it wasn't your fault, I'm sure." Sven looked up tearfully at Sergeant Merlan Haffleton, a middle-aged, Salamandastron campaigner who often served as Sven's mentor, when Lord Tadhor was away on the wars, "But you don't understand, Sergeant, it was my fault! I didn't even try to help them get away, I didn't fight at all, I just ran like a coward." Merlan put a paw around the young badger's shoulder, helping him upright, "Well, no use standing out here in the bally cold, lad. Let's go back to the mountain, eh?."

Inside, the mountain of Salamandastron was quiet. The usual barrack room ballads and banter were non-existent and every hare looked somber, as they watched Sven walk up to the dining table. Before he could sit down however, the rumbling voice of a large male badger echoed down from the forge room, "Sergeant Merlan, bring this son of mine up to the forge, now." A young hare named Perrin gave Sven a sympathetic glance as he rose and shambled his way, with Merlan, up the stone stairs to the forge.

Sven kept his eyes on the granite floor as he padded slowly toward his father's glowing forge oven. He felt a sob welling up in his throat but fought it back; it would only make matters worse in the eyes of his stern father. The angry clang of hammer upon metal throbbed in his head as he halted in front of the anvil. Then it stopped. Slowly, Sven raised his head and met his father's gaze. Lord Tadhor was the image of a badger lord, from his immense, scar-crossed body to the blood-tinged eyes set between broad creamy stripes. The look in those fierce eyes was, however, rather confusing for Sven. Anger was the overwhelming emotion he felt from his father, however, beneath that the young badger sensed uncertainty and a baffled frustration; the roar in his father's voice contained all of them at once. "Why, son, why? Two hares have died and you could not even stay to protect them or to take revenge for their deaths. Why do you bring such dishonor to my name, to the lineage of Badger Lords? You are strong, you have learnt all I can teach you of the ways of war, and yet you run at the mere sound of a real battle. I gave you you're first command, hoping that responsibility would give you courage, and look at what has happened. Two hares, promising young beasts, who could have lived long seasons more, dead. Because my son is a coward."

Lord Tadhor stopped and turned back to his forge. He heard the drips as his son's tears flowed out and sighed. He shouldn't have reprimanded him so hard; he had let his emotions, his pride take control. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the reproving look in his Sergeant's face. The big badger heard the thud of footpaws pounding the floor and turned swiftly, but his son was gone, sobbing, into his chambers. Slumping forward, Tadhor did not meet his Sergeant's eyes. Since his wife had died, he had been left to rear his young son on his own. However, Lord Tadhor was a warrior in his prime, not a parent; throughout the seasons he had often been at war, repelling the raiding Corsairs which periodically attacked Salamandastron and the surrounding country. During the brief time he had with Sven, Lord Tadhor concentrated on the only thing he had to teach: skill with weapons, smithing, and tactical battle skill. He loved his son, but as the seasons continued, he found himself not knowing how to relate to him. The young badger was attentive to his father's teaching, but he preferred to spend time learning from Salamandastron's healers and its few scholars.

Tadhor's paws clenched as he recalled the incident which had left Sven permanently scarred. During a walk on the beach with his inseparable friend, Collin, a young hare, a band of marauding weasels had ambushed the two young creatures, tangling their footpaws with cord, stunning them, and carrying them off inland. It was some time before the two young ones were missed and a rescue party sent out with an enraged Tadhor leading it; meanwhile, the weasels, who were slavers, and expected to sell Sven at a high price, were already far ahead in a forested area. The weasels had not told their prisoners their real intentions and pretended they were going to kill them... slowly. Sven had only related part of his experience to Sergeant Merlan, but it was clear that the vermin had already started torturing Collin and were approaching Sven, when the hares, led by Tadhor hit the camp like a thunderbolt. In the confusion, Collin had been slain by the leader of the weasels, but the weasels were soundly defeated. The disastrous incident had left Sven speechless for days, tormented by nightmares of fire, swords, and leering vermin. Lord Tadhor had continued his son's training, trying to turn Sven's grief over Collin's death to a drive for vengeance, however, the young badger refused to learn and, instead, became more and more silent, spending his days in the healer's workshops. Finally, desperate for his son to become a warrior worthy of the Bladestripe family, Tadhor had given Sven command of a small patrol of hares which ranged close to Salamandastron. That had been only five days ago.

That morning the hare patrol had returned without Sven and missing two young members. They recounted a harrowing tale that resembled only too much, Sven's earlier one. As they were marching between two shoreline cliffs, a horde of toads and large lizards, wielding dangerous stone bolas's, had ambushed them from front and back. At the mere sight of the cold-eyed cannibal creatures swinging bolas's, spears, and tridents, Sven had abandoned his patrol, running for his life back to Salamandastron. Without a commander, most of the hares, who were inexperienced and young, broke through the enemy ranks followed suit; leaving, however, two dead. With their superior running ability, they had outstripped the vermin and arrived at Salamandastron in ragged bunches, many of them quite severely wounded; Sven had arrived later that evening from a different angle, having run blindly in his panic.

Sergeant Merlan coughed slightly, bringing Lord Tadhor back to the present. He sighed again and lifted his fierce brown eyes to meet Merlan's. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. To think that my own son should have abandoned two hares to their deaths, I lost control. I do not know what to do with him. At the moment, I would rather face a hundred searats than my own son!" Merlan sat down on a rock ledge close to the Lord he had served for long seasons, "Beg pardon, M'lud, but have you ever considered how bally young your son is? It seems to me that what with all young Sven has endured, it was a little hard to send the feller on patrol, especially when 'es known to 'ate weapons and warfare, an those sorta things, wot." Merlan stepped back a pace as his Lord turned toward him; criticizing the Lord of Salamandastron was not usually a wise course to take and the threatening anger in Tadhor's eyes told Merlan that he might have gone to far. A growl issued from Tadhor, "It is not your place, Sergeant, to question the way I choose to raise the future Lord of Salamandastron." The brave hare, however, did not back down, looking Tadhor in the eye as he answered, "No, Milord, it is not. But I've known and cared for the feller since he was a only a little tyke and, with all due respects, I don't believe that 'e's gonna become a warrior by it bein' bally well forced on him, wot. Ye've always liked me to be honest with ye, Sire, and I'm being so now."

Lord Tadhor restrained the rising anger within him with some difficulty; his Sergeant was right, although he hated to admit it. Rising from the forge, he stumped over to a large, rectangular window carved into the rock of Salamandastron, inhaling deeply of the fresh briny air that blew in from the sea. "You're right, Sergeant. You're right. I was forcing him into a path he does not wish to tread and the death of my two hares lies on my shoulders also. But alas... a badger who does not wish to fight? Who will rule the mountain when I grow old?" Merlan joined his Lord at the window, "I think I might have a solution for you, M'lud. Have ye ever considered sending the chappie to Redwall?" In response to Tadhor's quizzical look, the veteran hare elaborated on his plan. "Ways I sees it, young Sven'll be perfectly at home there, wot with all their healers, scholar types, and whatnot. Furthermore, he'll also have warriors there to train him,. Like I said, Sven's not bally well going to be forced into becoming a top-notch warrior in a few seasons, here at Salamandastron. However, if 'e's livin' in a place he likes and he sees warriors living with healers, and suchlikes, warriors who can teach him how to overcome his fear slowly, I think it's quite a jolly good chance that your son will surprise ye one fine day, by becoming the brave warrior your Lordship always wanted him to be. It'll certainly be a sight better than him wastin' away in this mountain, wot wot?" Lord Tadhor nodded slowly; suddenly, the badger was feeling an entirely new emotion. He was going to miss his son, the little badger cub who had grown up and been through so much and still listened to his father without question, trying and trying to live up to his wishes to make him happy. How he wished he hadn't pushed him too far with that blasted patrol and then yelled at him and called him a coward. Scrubbing a large paw across the eyes which had not felt a tear for uncounted seasons, Lord Tadhor turned slowly to face his Sergeant. "Aye, Merlan, once again you're right. You know him far better than I do. I still love him though, and I wish things hadn't come to this. Take him to Redwall, he'll need a companion he can trust to protect him on the journey. Ye'll leave two days from now." Bowing respectfully, Sergeant Merlan Haffleton turned to leave but halted at the last words from his Lord, spoken with barely concealed wrath, "Oh, and Sergeant? Before you rest, organize a night patrol and have them obliterate these filthy cannibals from the Western shores, forever."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

As they hove in view of the magnificent Abbey, Garrol remarked happily to his daughter, " Sure, 'an if that isn't a sight to gladden yer heart, I don't know what is. Will ye just look at the way the ould sun shines on those walls! Looks like warm honey flowing on a thick slab o' cherry-glazed fruitbread, that it does." Lira chuckled, shifting the strap tied around her shoulder and chest to ease the weight of the cart which they were both pulling, "Your poetry seems to be singularly affected when you get hungry, eh Da? I agree though, it looks absolutely stunning. We'd better put a move on if we want to reach there before sunset. Don't want to miss supper, do we?" Despite his girth, her father's pace augmented significantly at that comment. "Ah sure, that we do not, lass. T'would be a turrible fate to miss out on one of the famous grand Redwall suppers" As she walked, Lira gazed out rapturously at the Abbey's southwest ramparts, forgetting her aching footpaws and shoulders at the sight of the setting sun bathing the homely red-stone towers, roofs, and gables, and turning them a hundred pastel shades of pink, orange, and red. She and her father had left the barge at the river that morning and loaded their belongings and trading items into a large cart which they had pulled all that day. She was sure she was going to be sore tomorrow, but lost in the excitement of arriving at the fabled Abbey, Lira didn't really care.

The two squirrels reached the gate, just as the Redwall bells, Mathias and Methuselah, tolled out the sunset hour. They had been seen from a long way off by the walltop sentries posted by Foremole Torkan for the last three days and the mighty iron and oak gates of Redwall swung open in welcome just as they reached them. Garrol grinned hugely as he swung out of the shoulder strap and bounded over to greet Abbess Lydia and Tarro who stood with a host of welcoming Redwallers. "Ahoy there, Abbess marm, 'tis ould Garrol Trufflebrush come 'a visitin'! Tarro, ye great grey-whiskered sword-swinger, how are ye?" Lydia embraced the fat squirrel heartily, "Garrol Trufflebrush, my dear friend, it's been far too long since you visited us. Welcome once again. I'm sure all the young ones will be looking forward to hearing your tales and songs; but that can wait till after supper, can't it?" Garrol left off pumping Tarro's paw and turned in mock horror to his daughter, "Sure, 'an I was forgettin' all about ye, beauty. Mother Abbess and my dear friends, allow me to introduce me one an' only daughter, Lira, beauty o' the waterways an' terror o' the woodlands." Lira laughed at his exaggerated introduction, "Away wi' ye, Da, I can introduce myself." Shaking the Abbess's paw heartily, the young squirrelmaid smiled happily, "Thank you for your hospitality, Mother Abbess, I'm so happy to actually be here! My father's told me tale after tale about your beautiful Abbey and it looks just as amazing as I thought it would!" Lydia smiled back at the squirrelmaid, "I'm glad you finally visited us, Lira, I hope you'll enjoy your stay here, however long you may wish it to be. Now, come inside, both of you. I'm sure Friar Bulrush has a crust or two of stale nutbread and some leftover salad for hungry visitors. There might even be a few drops of October ale left for you from supper, Garrol." Tarro, mortified, turned to question Lydia but stopped as he saw the twinkle in the Abbess's eyes. Garrol, unfortunately, did not, but dared not voice his dismay to most of the Redwallers gathered around. "Err-hem, of course, Mother Abbess, thank ye for savin' some for us.

As they walked back to the main Abbey building, Lira was already chatting animatedly with some of the younger Redwallers whilst trying to cope with the love-at-first-sight impression of a young male squirrel called Davin.

"Hi there, Lira, I'm Davin."

"Pleased to meet ye, Davin. Whew, this Abbey's larger than it looks from outside. What's that building over there?"

"That's our belltower. I'm the bellringer, did you know?"

"No, of course I didn't, I just got here! Those bells look pretty big, are they hard to pull?"

"Aye, well they are quite heavy, but ye know one gets some muscle over time..."

While Davin struck a roguish, devil-may-care pose, a young bankvole named Dorky whispered in Lira's ear, "Hehe, just look at him! He's actually been _apprentice_ bellringer for only half a season... and he's still struggling to get some basic tunes right, due to their weight."

Lira snorted to cover a laugh, and glanced at her father who was walking glumly, with his tail dragging. She had missed Lydia's comments about supper, due to Davin's interruption. "Hmm, I wonder what's up with Da." Dorky chuckled again, "Hahaha, didn't ye hear? Muther Abbess told him that, that they had some leftover bread and a few drops of ale left fer his supper, so she did. Of course, Friar Bulrush's got a full feast awaitin' for you." Davin butted in, "Aye, and ye got me to thank for that, Lira. I saw you coming from far off this afternoon and alerted the Friar so he had time to do some extra baking." Lira played him up to the hilt, fluttering her eyelashes outrageously, "Oh, that was so kind of you, Davie. And I suppose it was you who rang those bells this afternoon, I could hear them all the way out in the plain. You must really be strong to be able to handle them so well." Davin smiled and blushed slightly as she leaned on his arm as they arrived at the Abbey door. Still smiling coyly, she continued, "Aye, I'm certain a gallant strong beast such as you would do anything for a tired young squirrelmaid wouldn't he?" "Of course I would" "Perfect. Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind bringing our cart in under shelter and bring up our things to whatever room they assign before we eat? There's a large box of carving tools in there, that should give you a nice workout. Thanks a lot." Straightening up, she winked at him and skipped off indoors, leaving Davin to the guffaws of all his young companions.

As they entered Great Hall, Garrol's mouth fell open in astonishment. Tables after tables laden with lavishly prepared food greeted his eyes, bathed in the colored glow of candles and lanterns. Lydia pushed him playfully to a seat, chuckling in a most un-Abbesslike manner, "Get along with you, you old barrel-bellied grubbtub. Haha, you should have seen your face! Don't you know me better?" Amidst the cheering and laughing, the creatures of Redwall, young and old, sat down to enjoy a true Redwall feast amidst friendship, peace and plenty.

Outside, a crescent moon, half obscured by scudding clouds, glimmered in a cold late autumn night. Deep beneath the tree-shadows, below Redwall's east ramparts, seven figures flitted from shadow to shadow with practiced ease, their paws making no sound in the thick loam. The sentry was an old hedgehog who was leaning on the stone walkway; he heard not the whispers of dark capes in the leaves or if he did, attributed them to the slight breeze. Veran the Black studied the impressive structure, his face betraying nothing. There was a light noise, and the female rat slunk to his side. She was slim and wiry, very unlike most of her specie, and unlike her companions, she seemed to possess a stupendous amount of weaponry, namely daggers. The dark cloak obscured much of her body but sheaths were visible under her forearms, armpits, and wrists. The light leather boots also bulged with hidden blades. As she shifted to adress Veran, the moonlight glittered momentarily on an array of bottles, hooks, and pouches at her waist belts. "Do ye want me to enter that place, Master? I could easily open the gates for us and we would be inside before these creatures are aware of us." Veran turned to her slightly, "Nay, Sedge, patience. If Martin the Warrior did indeed found this place, there must be mighty warriors within its walls. I do not doubt you would be the match of them, but I do not wish to take chances. For now, we watch and wait for our chance. A fortress is like an opponent's body; it has weak points which when properly struck will instantly paralyze. When we will strike, we will take no chances; they will be helpless before our attack." Nodding wordlessly, the seven slid back into the night.

**Okay, so I know what everyone's thinking. When does the action start? Next chapter, and I promise to make it jaw-dropping. I'll also try to make them longer. Please review and keep in mind that I'm sort of making this up as I go along so any ideas about attacks the seven antagonists could use on the Abbey are welcome. Also, please tell me you're impression of the main characters; I tried to give them personalities that differed slightly from the stereotypical Abesses, Foremoles, and Skippers (this one may not be obvious yet but you'll see). And of course any comments on Lira's character development. And just as a teaser, wait till you see those black-furred evil warriors in action, they'll be amazing.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

Lord Tadhor Bladestripe took one last glance at his son and the hare sergeant as they disappeared under a dune crest, far away on the south-eastern dunes. He knew Sven had been overjoyed at the prospect of visiting Redwall, although his conscientious son took care not to make it too apparent that he was eager to leave the warrior badger wiped his eyes again, reliving their farewell; before leaving the mountain, Sven had hugged him fiercely, whispering through unashamed tears, "I love you, Father, I, I'll miss you. I won't let you down I promise." Tadhor had surprised himself by what he said next, "You can't let me down, young 'un, I just want you to be happy. Follow your own path and don't blame yourself for my own shortcomings. Be true to who you are; whatever you path you tread, you will always remain my son. Go now and don't look back." One last hug and he was gone, and the warrior badger felt more lonely than he ever thought he could.

Trudging back to his forge, Tadhor met a young hare with tawny fur and long ears which were drooping on either side of his head. He looked up at his Lord unhappily.

"Will he ever come back, sah?"

"Now, now, Perrin. Of course, he will. It's his home after all. Did you get a chance to say goodbye to my son?"

"Aye, I did. I'll never ferget Sven, he's always been there for me since Collin died. I don't know how he could have helped me so much, while grievin' himself. We would work in the infirmary together an', an' he would keep my mind occupied by doing riddles or silly rhymes and whenever I would start looking sad again, he'd play tricks on ole' Fasby and make me laugh. Ye know, sah, I've always wanted to tell you how brave Sven was."

Tadhor blinked, he had accepted that his son would never be a warrior, but he could not see how someone could call him brave, "How so?"

"Well, ye see, what with that dratted toad ambush an' all, Sven doesn't exactly have a reputation fer bravery out here, but I wish more o' the hares who scoffed at him and called him coward could have seen him in the infirmary this summer, ye know sah, when the corsairs tried to raid the coast. There were hares that were brought in, slashed and covered in blood some with their heads laid open or missing a limb, and he stayed to tend 'em where many a young hare fainted. I tells ye, Sire, he would stay up all night to soothe them with songs that he had learned or made up himself, and I would see him hold many an old warrior's paw as he passed away. I know that he isn't the bravest in battle but I think he more than made up fer it by all the ones he kept sane through the long painful nights and all the brave hares he helped to save. He would never talk about what he did though, and I thought I'd tell you, after what happened on the shore..."

"Thank you, Perrin, I'm glad you did. I hope we all see him again soon and be able to tell him how much he means to all of us." Deep in thought, the warrior Lord climbed up to his forge and sat brooding on his carved stone chair, re-thinking everything he had said and done with his young son. However, he was not allowed much time for reflection. From highest lookout post of Salamandastron, an urgent cry echoed down the stone corridors, "Ship ahoy! Coming from the south!"

Thundering upwards through the maze of dim passages, Tadhor burst through the door and out into the crater top to join the lookout. "Where, Clevis?" The hare directed the telescope to face out into the southern seas whose far off fringes were still covered by a light blanket of sea mist, "There, Sire." With a grunt, the large badger crouched down and took one long look before turning back to Clevis, "It's a ship alright, but my eyes are not what they used to be. Is it a corsair or searats?" Clevis took another look in the telescope, answering as he did, "No, Sire... this bloomin' ship's bigger than any I've ever seen Corsairs or Searats use. It's built for long sea voyages and wotnot, not raiding. And there are some rather strange structures on its decks. Hmm, the blinkin' mist is lifting, I'll see more in a moment... Blood 'n thunder, Sire, there's three ships out there! An' one's bally well landed already! Down the coast, over there, there's armed creatures on the shore." Suddenly, Tadhor gave a roar as the reality dawned upon him, "Blast, Sven's out there! An Merlan! Call out the Patrol! Eullaliaaaaaa!" Like a furry juggernaut, he barreled back down the mountain as the fighting hares of Salamandastron came flocking out of the chambers and mess halls. In a thrice, he had reached the lower levels but was forced to skid to a halt as a lanky, decorated hare stepped out squarely in his path. "Colonel Stapwick, out o' my way. Rally the troops and follow me!" The officer stayed put, trying to calm the Badger Lord, despite the blood-red tinge rising in his eyes. "M'lord, stop an' think fer a second. If ye leave the mountain undefended, Salamandastron'll be overrun!

Tadhor gave another roar of rage, his mind torn between the dilemma; his duty or his son's safety. The badger strove to control himself, trying to think clearly. There had to be a solution. Suddenly, he began barking out orders at the assembled hares, his voice and eyes clear and sharp, galvanizing all his warrior skills to respond to the danger before it was too late.

"Lieutenent Hawkin, take your squad, block every exit, except the back one! Corporal Worty, oversee the distribution of weapons, have every hare armed to the teeth! Private Lawks, secure all the produce from the vegetable gardens that can be eaten and post tour archers at the every slit, have fires lit for the fire arrows! Colonel Stapwick, make sure we are not taken by surprise, coordinate the defenses. Jump to it! Dya, Gadwit, Klem, and Furlong, you four come with me!"

The hares in question, a dark-furred fit female, her rather flustered brother, a quiet lanky lieutenant, and a grizzled, long-furred veteran followed their Lord into a side chamber, listening as he outlined his plan.

"Listen to me, Sven and Merlan must not be left at the mercy of whatever creatures have invaded our shores! I cannot leave the mountain but I will send you instead, skilled warriors whom I can trust to protect my son. You must leave at once, by the back exit; find Sven and protect him with your lives. Take him to Redwall, where he will be safe until the danger is past. Dya, I am placing you in command of this operation; listen to Furlong he has many years of experience. Go now, and may your blade be swift and good fortune attend you." The four hares saluted as one and sped out of the chamber.

It happened so quickly that Sven had no time to scream. One moment he was walking happily in the thick tussock beneath a small grove of pines, swinging his satchel, and the next he was facing a long, wickedly curved blade and a fully drawn bow. As a seasoned campaigner, Sergeant Merlan was not slow to act; he threw himself in front of the young badger, paws clenched at the ready, roaring, "Get away, young 'un! Run!" Even had Sven decided to abandon the Sergeant and flee, it would have been fruitless. A score of vermin stepped out from behind the trees and bushes, completely surrounding them in a semicircle of blades and tridents. Terrified, Sven backed up until his back was against Merlan's, "Wh' what do we do?". Merlan muttered back at him while eying the growing band of vermin, "Stay calm, young 'un an' get ready to run." The force was mostly composed of minks, clad in a strange, foreign garb of silk and light metal armor and wielding sabers, and large, brutish-looking polecats holding crude tridents and long metal bars equipped with small rectangular blades on all four sides. A few weasels, two stoats, and a ragged fox could also be seen. The leader, a tough looking mink in a burnished breast-plate who was menacing Sven with his long saber, leered at the captives wickedly. "Well, well, what have we here, mates? An unarmed rabbit an' a badger pup, out on a promenade?" There were a few appreciative sniggers and the circle of blades drew closer; Sven was shaking so hard by now that he could hardly stand. " E' looks unwell, doesn't 'e, mates? P'raps, we should take him home with us 'till he's better, eh?". The scarred fox at the mink captain's side whispered something in his ear and his mood changed. Eyes narrowed cruelly, he ordered his followers, "Take the badger alive, his Lordship'll want a werd or two wi' any relations o' the big badger. Kill the hare."

Sven watched in horror as Merlan leapt forward, paws moving in a blur to intercept the closest polecat who swung his weapon in a vicious arc at the Sergeant. Time slowed. Before the blow could land, there was a blur of flying rags and red-brown fur and something ducked under the heavy mace. _Crack. _The polecat screamed as his paw snapped audibly, the noise abruptly cut off by the flying elbow he received so forcefully on his chin as to knock him out cold. Merlan stared a second in amazement at the scarred fox who stood in front of him, as did all the assembled vermin. "Wot the...?" The fox wasted not time, taking every advantage of his surprise attack, sliding out his leather belt and whipping it around the hilt of the oncoming saber blade of the mink leader in one fluid motion. Tugging hard, he crouched low, letting go of the belt and punishing the minks body with a blur of rapid paw strikes to neck, ribs, snout, and upper arm, finishing with a crunching elbow blow to his head. Despite his armor, the mink stood no chance at the precision of the attack. With a yell, the strange fox swung the dead leader around and threw him at the nearest vermin. Meanwhile, Merlan had recovered from his surprise and ducked the whistling arc of a glistening blade, coming up with a scratch on his ear... and a devastating uppercut to the mink's chin. Twisting around, the Sergeant kicked out powerfully laying another polecat out flat. "Run! Sven, run!" The young badger hesitated for a dangerous moment; he couldn't bear to leave Merlan to certain death, however, his every instinct were telling him to flee. The stoat archer at the edge of the group took aim at Sven's footpaw, hoping to cripple him but the ragged fox had already seen him. Drawing the carved dagger from his current enemy's belt while twisting the mink's sword arm in an intricate (and no doubt unhealthy, judging by the sound) position, he aimed rapidly and took out the stoat through the throat. The arrow speeding by his muzzle, settled Sven's mind; with a last look at Merlan and his strange rescuer, he took to his paws with his old mentor's cries urging him on. "Get away, Sven, run fer your life! Live! Euulaliaaaaaa!" The slim form of the young badger disappeared through the trunks of the pines- trailed by ten minks and a polecat.

Arren, for it was he, fought like a madbeast, drawing upon all his skill to reach the beleaguered hare before Merlan was cut down by the vermin surrounding him. Although, he had not real time for reflection, a part of the fox's mind noticed with interest on the fighting style Merlan used. It was different from the fighting methods he had been taught at the Isle of Quorr- a mink's jaw was shattered by his swift kick- but seemed just as effective- a polecat's mace skimmed his head as he ducked reopening one of his old wounds slightly- relying more on simple techniques- he slammed his pawtip in the polecat's arm muscle nerve point and took him out with a straight punch to the side of the neck. Finally, he reached Merlan, who had already sustained a gash to the shoulder and a slice across the cheek, and the two fought back to back against their foes, giving kick for slash and punch for stab. Suddenly, the ranks of the vermin thinned as more and more of the invaders realized that their main target was gone. The second in command barked out an order and his subordinates scurried away, glad to get away from the two beasts who fought as if possessed and turn to an easier target. Sven. It took Merlan a few moments to realize why the lull had occurred but suddenly the hare lurched forward with a cry, pursuing the hunting vermin. A stoat turned, setting an arrow to her bow she fired from a fair distance. If it had not been for Arren's flying tackle the arrow would have taken Merlan through the abdomen; as it was it pierced his left leg. Satisfied, and unwilling to face the snarling fox who was starting to draw a dagger from another dead mink, the stoat turned tail and ran off into the thick pine copse.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

It was night in the pine copse southwest of Salamandastron. Crickets chirped gently and the hoot of a hunting owl resonated through the moonlit woods. The large, moss-covered husk of what had once been a giant pine lay propped on a small clump of rock, half buried in loam and nearly invisible, just another part of the quiet nighttime forest. However, closer inspection would reveal a small natural cave formed between the hollow trunk and the rock, well disguised by hanging ferns. Maybe once a creature had dug into the trunk as a temporary shelter and then abandoned it; however, it was now a welcome refuge for two creatures in urgent need of a hiding place. Sergeant Merlan Haffleton slowly came back to consciousness, having passed out from the loss of blood. The faithful hare's first though was of Sven; he had to go after him! With a grunt, he attempted to rise but a firm paw pushed him back down. The inscrutable face of Arren looked into the Sergeant's mangled face calmly. "Lie still, hare, thy leg is gravely injured. The young one is long gone; thou canst go after him in this state." The veteran hare hitched himself up, pawing at his wound. It still sent pangs of pain up his leg but it had been skillfully bound with a long piece of fabric which held several herbs in place against the wound. Merlan resigned himself unwillingly to the fact that he could be of no help to Sven at the moment, though he still hung to the slim hope that the badger had escaped, and turned to examine his unexpected companion. The fox looked to be in his thirtieth seasons, his fur a matted brown with traces of ochre, his face and black eyes an inscrutable, impassive mask which the hare did not attempt to decipher. Clad in a tattered jerkin and ragged cloak which barely disguised the large scars crisscrossing his body, he looked very much the worst for wear and the Sergeant decided that for the moment, he would trust this strange warrior who had stepped in to their rescue and had undoubtedly carried him to safety and tended to his wounds. The veteran was still curious though, as to what a warrior of this skill had been doing with the vermin band and why he had intervened and, most important of all, who were the vermin and what danger did they pose to Salamandastron.

Giving a brief military salute from his sitting position, the hare extended a paw in greeting.

"My thanks to ye, ole chap, for steppin' in on our account and patchin' up that confounded arrow hole. Sergeant Merlan Haffleton, veteran fighter of Salamandastron, currently servin' under Lord Tadhor Bladestripe."

"Arren, formerly of Quorr. It is not the way of a warrior to leave two beasts to fight against many nor to leave wounded beasts untended on the field of battle."

The two warriors shook paws briefly. Merlan observed him carefully, noting the fox's brusque and impassive manner. Was he perhaps regretting his earlier actions? Nevertheless, Merlan felt he had to ask the fox more. The lives of many could depend on what this stranger knew of this invasion.

"So, if ye'll pardon me askin', what were ye doin' with these invaders? The creatures on these coasts are peaceful, farmers, traders and suchlikes, so it's up to us, the Long Patrol to keep these shores free of vermin. If nothin' is done about them they'll be free to ravage and loot the whole o' Mossflower country, wot? I'd be obliged if ye could tell me what ye know of them, their weapons, numbers, an' so forth."

The hare waited as Arren took a deep breath. As he turned, the hare caught a glimmer in the obsidian eyes, a glimpse of deadly rage and, although he wasn't sure, something like shame. When he faced the hare, the look was gone and the fox began to speak.

"I understand thee, Merlan, thou art bound to protect those who art not warriors and thus, though thou art the first to hear it, I will tell to thee my tale so that thee might know what danger is upon these lands. Far to the east of here beyond mountains, rivers, and deserts, lies another sea, deep and treacherous, the Eastern Sea. In olden days, far beyond the memory of any living beasts, this sea was ruled by a dynasty of ruthless and cruel emperors, the Vhorsilk, who ruled over a land far beyond the Eastern seas and who invaded with countless ships, preying upon the creatures who lived on the coast. Feared and unchallenged, they struck with cruel precision, having command over strange weapons that had never been seen before, and enslaved armies of free creatures. Corsairs and searats fled these seas or fell before their might. However, one spring, there came to these shores, a mouse who called himself Tarmin, bearing on his back an brilliant sword which was said to be forged from star metal. The light of courage and freedom shone in his eyes and within a moon, he had rallied an army of freed slaves and freedom fighters and defeated a Captain of the Vhorsilk. Through battles both on land and on the seas, the Vhorsilk were driven slowly back by the rebels led by Tarmin, until they reached an island far off the coast. There was fought a great battle and the Vhorsilk were utterly vanquished and retreated to their homeland. To ensure that they would never return and that the coasts would remain safe, Tarmin selected several young creatures among his followers and taught them the way of the warrior. Once he had trained them in skill with weapons, paw to paw fighting, healing, and the code of the warrior, Tarmin bade them live on the Island which was named Quorr and protect the lands forever from the Vhorsilk emperors. These warriors trained others throughout the ages and their organization became known as the Order of Starblade. A mighty watch tower was erected with skill which has long ago become lost in time and the Eastern coast had peace. I am one of this Order, the last still alive.

I will not relate the full tale, but four moons ago, seven warriors betrayed the Order and managed to slay all their companions through a cunning trap. Why they did so, nobeast knows, but I suspect that their leader had grown arrogant in the powers he had received from the Order and wished to be the sole beast to wield it. What folly! As soon as our Order had fallen, the seas lay open to invaders. The Vhorsilk had been doing light forays into the forbidden territory; now, although I doubt they were in league with the traitor, they were free to do as they willed. It is not necessary for you to know how I escaped death, but I had heard of the peaceful lands to the south and west, of the names of Redwall and Salamandastron, and I wished to do everything I could to fulfill the mission of Starblade to protect these lands from enemies. I disguised myself and joined a Vhorsilk crew, pretending to be a common vermin who had been oppressed and wounded by the Order of Starblade... Four moons we sailed, and my wounds healed. I soon realized that the Vhorsilk were not sailing to the Eastern coast, which was more barren and abandoned then ever. Apparently, they too had heard the name of Mossflower country and their armada was now bound there through the quickest route. South we sailed and around the tip of the land known as Southswards. Then, the ships of the Vhorsilk continued up the coast until they reached their target. Salamandastron, the guardian of Mossflower and the Western Coast. Today, I was out with a scouting party and you know the rest. As for the Vhorsilk, they are skilled tacticians, they wield strange weapons, and their armada holds a thousand at least, although not all are focused on Salamandastron. From what I know, their aim is to take the coast first and move inland. However, there is another threat, one I regard with as much seriousness as this invasion. The seven traitors are still alive, I know it, and their goal was Redwall Abbey. Believe me, they are as dangerous as tenscore warriors. My duty is to stop them; even should it mean my death. That is all I can tell you."

The fox's tone had remained utterly calm and even during his tale, his eyes dark and withdrawn. Both beasts were silent for a moment, Arren lost in his own secret thoughts and memories, and Merlan struck utterly speechless by the enormity of the fox's revelation. The hoot of an owl could be heard again in the night outside. Then the scrunch of paws on dry pine needles alerted both beasts to the approach of several creatures. Trying to breathe silently, they stood frozen, waiting and listening.

"I say, Dya ole sis, aren't we stoppin' soon for a bit of scoff, wot? I'm famished!"

"Gadwit, ye lop-eared grumbleguts, we're on a blinkin' life an' death mission 'ere! Tighten yer belt an' hope we pick up the trail of those vermin soon."

"Aye, young 'un, less jawin' an' more smellin'. That's wot we brought you for, 'member?"

"Huh, fat chance of a chap smellin' anythin' but pine needles in this bloomin' endless forest. You tellem, Klem."

"Shhh. Quiet, I've picked up a trail. Looks like one beast, travelin' loaded."

Merlan's ears stood up straight in relief. He called out loudly, popping his head out of the opening as he did so.

"What ho the Long Patrol! O'er here! Got a friend, top-notch warrior type. S'got some classified info on the situation you chaps might like to hear, too."

...


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

Morning sunlight sifted through the half-open lids of Lira, gently drifting her out of a deep and refreshing sleep. The squirrel stretched lazily; it was nice to feel soft sheets against her pawpads after seasons of warm but rough barge quilts. As the excitement of actually waking up in the fabled Abbey made itself known she jumped out of the small bed, her tail nearly knocking off an unlit candle from the small bed-table. Hurriedly righting it, the squirrelmaid slid into the warm green habit placed by her bed (while her travel clothes were being washed, she assumed) and fairly skipped across the small room to the window. Last night had been one of the most glorious days in the maid's life, filled with light, music, and most importantly, friendship and good cheer. And the food...! Perfect puddings, heavenly hearthbreads, scrumptious salads, priceless pies, tantalizing trifles, pleasant pasties, tender tartlets: in all, so many different dishes that she had scarcely been able to sample everything- not that the same could be said for her father. More than one cook or server had fallen under the witty charm of the merchant who seemed to attract delicacies to him like metal shavings to a magnet. As for the drinks, she would be surprised if her shameless parent was up before midday taking into account the amount of ale, wine, and cordial he had imbibed.

A smile flickered on her lips as she reached the window and threw open the single hinged pane of glass, breathing deeply of the cool morning air which seemed to carry the fragrance of sunshine itself within it. The Abbey grounds lay spread below her, small patches of green poking through the thick carpet of fallen leaves covering the ground, glimpses of russet and gold through the foliage of the orchard, and to her right, the tell-tale glitter of water. Relaxing into the complete peace which was so elusive in the beautiful but dangerous woods she had lived her childhood in, Lira leaned on the windowsill and closed her eyes briefly. Suddenly, her ear-tufts quivered. The ring of metal being drawn was faint but unmistakable and her eyes flew open, the quiet peace shattered by her swift instincts born of a life spent in woodcraft and traveling. The grounds seemed abandoned and it took several seconds for her glance to rise to the walltops. What she saw there immediately allayed any fears she might have had, but her curiosity was piqued all the more. She could vaguely remember the lone figure on the battlements as an older mouse present at the feast but amidst the revelry, names had gone in one ear and out the other. The mouse was holding a sword, immobile, in a warrior's salute; when the brief pause ended, however, Lira could not retain a gasp at the obvious skill of the ensuing demonstration. Up, across, sideways, down, around, and crossways, the blade wove a complex and mesmerizing rhythm in perfect sync with the footpaws and body of its bearer. As he ended, the sword coming to rest perfectly into the same salute he had started with, the squirrelmaid could not contain her curiosity any longer. The shimmering blade seemed to call to her across the wide sunlit air. With no reflections whatsoever, she swung herself out through the large open window.

The room was located on the lowest floor of the dormitories, but still high enough that a fall could result in broken limbs; Lira however paid next to no heed to the height. She had spent her entire life climbing trees, even the kinds with smooth bark, and the rough, cracked sandstone walls provided ample purchase for her nimble paws. Methodically, she descended the vertical drop, aware only of her burning curiosity to meet the mouse on the walltop and of the familiar thrill that climbing always brought her. However, if the squirrelmaid was totally unconcerned about her precarious situation, another beast crossing the lawns on his way to the Belltower was not quite so convinced.

"Alert! Help! Get a ladder! Lira's fallen out of her window, she's stuck on the wall! Someone come, quickly!"

Davin dashed around frantically on the lawns yelling as loud as he could without even bothering to take a closer look in his agitation, before finally deciding to sprint towards the main door when no help seemed forthcoming. By the time the panicked and babbling young squirrel re-emerged a few minutes later, he was surrounded by the morning kitchen crew and Skipper Logan, carrying a long ladder between them. The otter chieftain set the ladder smoothly down on the wall and looked up to the wall. He took his time, scanning the entire length of the wall and the many windows ledges. Not a beast was in sight. With a mildly amused expression, he turned and placed a heavy paw on Davin's shoulder.

"Well, I'll go check in her room to make sure, mate. You lot can go, there doesn't appear to be any immediate danger. "

The faint sound of voices from the east wall attracted his attention before the befuddled apprentice bellringer could say anything. The Skipper glanced for a second at the two figures there before hefting the ladder on his broad back again.

"On second thought, no need to check. Miss Lira's in safe paws. You go along to the Belltower, Master Davin, or you'll get complaints from old Burdo if he's not wakened in time fer breakfast."

The otter chieftain strode back inside, hiding a smile at the awed look on the squirrel's face as he computed the skill it must have taken for the maid to scale down the walls so rapidly. Maybe he should have arranged for more climbing lessons for the lad.

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the ruckus due to the concentration required to descend the vertical surface, Lira had successfully reached the ground, landing lightly on all fours with a scrunch of dry leaves. With eager paws, she ran the length of the grounds and headed for the wall stairs. A quick look upwards confirmed that the mouse was still there, standing silent with his face towards the morning sun. It was a matter of seconds for the agile squirrel to scale the steps but she halted at the top, suddenly shy. Without saying a word, she stared at the back of the russet tunic of the warrior, her eyes traveling over the fabric, inexorably attracted to the shining blade which leaned casually on one shoulder. She didn't doubt for a second that she was seeing the fabled sword of Martin the Warrior but a small part of her was surprised. Her father, endowed with the imagination and knack for exaggeration common to all good storytellers, had painted vivid pictures in her mind of a hilt covered in rubies and diamonds beyond count of value, of a blade that shone with its own light and blinded its opponents, of a pommel stone endowed with mysterious magical qualities (among which numbered the ability to cure toothaches). But the sword Lira had in front of her was a simple, elegant weapon endowed with a single red stone and a plain, serviceable hilt bound with shark-skin leather: not a magical thing of legend but a true warrior's implement. So engrossed was she in her examination that the gentle but firm voice startled her and her bushy tail shot up to half-cover her face in sudden embarrassment.

"Good morning... Lira, I believe?"

Tarro half turned towards her, noting the brief, involuntary disappointment on the maid's features as he sheathed the sword in a single movement. His smile was warm, with a tinge of tiredness that often accompanied it in recent times. It deepened as Lira attempted not to look like she had been carefully observing him for the last minute.

"Er yes.. good morning, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you, I was just curious..."

The old warrior made a negating motion with his paw.

"Oh, not at all, Lira. You didn't disturb me, indeed I like to have company to watch the sun rise on a glorious morning such as this. Besides, your display of climbing skill provided much needed distraction for this old mouse; young Davin saw you and panicked, he's brought the entire kitchen crew to rescue you, look!"

Lira looked down for the first time, aware of voices on the grounds and couldn't suppress a giggle at the sight of ladders and several beasts milling around the wall.

"Haha, oh dear! Doesn't he ever climb?"

She blushed suddenly at the realization of the trouble she was causing.

"Oh I am sorry, sir, I didn't mean to cause so much trouble."

Tarro chuckled, for an instant sounding a few season's younger than he was.

"Ah no, don't worry they've seen us out here and it'll soon settle down. You'd better be prepared for some admirers when you go down to breakfast though, they won't leave you alone until you teach them all how to do the trick. A bit of excitement never does any harm at Redwall. So, may I ask if there was anything in particular that made you want to join me, Miss Lira?"

"No, not really, sir, I just... you were so quick with your- I mean Martin's- sword and I'd never seen a real blademaster before."

"Ah, I see. My name is Tarro and long seasons ago, I was chosen to be the warrior of Redwall and the wielder of Martin's sword. I wouldn't call myself particularly skillful though, at least, no more than anybeast who has practiced for many years can become."

"Could I... could I see you practice again with it, sir?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them and she shuffled her paws a little in renewed embarrassment of having made a direct request of Redwall's champion. But Tarro shifted his stance wordlessly, his paws dropping to the sword hilt and drawing it out a second time. Remaining stationary, he started spinning the blade in a slow rhythmic circles drawing Lira's gaze inexorably into the flashing dance. Faster than a flying insect, thrumming like a hummingbird's wings, the fabled blade increased in speed and spun overhead and underpaw then circled Tarro's waist in a blinding pattern. Suddenly, it leaped up into the air twirled once and came down to meet its wielder's paws, leaning on one shoulder again, accompanied by a small gasp from the squirrelmaid. Tarro gave a light smile again but paused before sheathing his sword, struck by the look in his companion's eyes.

"Would you like to hold it, Lira?"

The surprise and amazement shining from her eyes was answer enough for the old warrior. With a smooth movement, he offered her the blade, hilt first. Lira's paws clasped around the grip which though made for a mouse, fitted her small paws very well indeed. As Tarro let go, she took the full weight of the weapon and lifted it to the sun. A delighted smile lit up her face.

"It's so light!"

"And strong enough to cut through any steel. Here, stand ready."

She turned with the sword to see Tarro holding a medium branch in one paw, demonstrating the at the ready pose. Delighted, the squirrelmaid copied his movements, trying to feel out the weapon. Despite it's lightness, the weapon was still heavy enough to require some skill but it felt so... balanced. Now, she understood some of the awe that was associated with it. From sight it looked like a fine sword; from holding it, it felt like a living lightning bolt. Lira looked up to meet Tarro's eyes just as he moved in. Startled, she stepped back, dropping her guard and the warrior stepped to one side and jabbed her lightly in the ribs with the stick. Not a word was said. She understood. Gathering her confidence, she swung the sword at shoulder height, not with a great deal of force so as not to hurt Tarro. She need not have worried. The mouse used his height to his advantage, ducking under the blow and rapping her chest smartly with his stick.

"Too slow. Flow. Let the blade guide you."

Lira tried again, this time a low sweep at foot height. She tried to feel out the movement, adjusting her body to put some speed in the maneuver. Again, the mouse warrior moved too quickly, jumping up and over the strike. Sweeping back, Lira attacked again bringing the blade down in a cleaving motion with a bit more force. The blade clanged harmlessly on the floorstones as she received a smart rap on the knuckles from the branch, causing her to drop it. Gritting her teeth in frustration, situation and surroundings forgotten in the intensity, the squirrelmaid dropped to the ground, rolled, grasping the blade hilt with one paw, and flung herself forward and up as though the wall floor was a thick, bouncy branch. Tarro half-smiled at her determination and slid to one side with practiced ease allowing the blade point to sail by his whiskers. A light push from his paw unbalanced the maid as she landed and the stick was at her throat in the blink of an eye.

"Good work, Lira."

The sensation of her burning frustration, intense concentration, and pounding heart suddenly left Lira at the words and she blinked in recognition of where she was.

"I... I'm sorry, I must have gotten carried away."

Tarro had a thoughtful look in his eyes as he accepted the sword back from the maid and offered her a paw to help her upright.

"No need to be sorry, Lira. If I hadn't expected you to strike back, I wouldn't have attacked you at all. As can be expected, your skill is that of a beginner but you displayed some surprising characteristics of a warrior just now. Determination. Ingenuity. Using your natural skills to your advantage."

Lira's ears, fully trained on his words, suddenly perked up at the sound of the bells.

"Breakfast time, my friend. Ooh, I've worked up quite an appetite with this little exercise."

He grinned at her and suddenly, Lira found herself quite at ease with the old warrior They chatted like old friends as they descended the wallsteps.

"I wonder if Da's up yet. He drank far too much yesterday."

"Did he indeed? If I know Garrol, that won't stop him from missing breakfast."

"By the way, thank you for letting me hold your sword, sir, I really enjoyed the practice- even though I made a fool of myself."

"The only way to become better is through practice, Lira. There is no shame in failing the first time. If you want, join me in the morning up here and I can teach you as much blade skill as you want to learn."

Lira stopped mid-stride, her expression similar to when he had offered her to hold the sword.

"You mean that? Oh thank you, sir, I'd love to!"

As she sprinted off the bright sunlit lawns, Tarro glanced down at the sword hilt with a soft murmur.

"Thank you, Martin."


End file.
